Page 8 of This Haunted Heart

Rynn Mavis

I t was wishful thinking that after all that, Finley would forget his silly question and let me off the hook. We were both exhausted. I wanted to slip off to sleep on the cloud of bliss he’d ensconced me in. If I blinked too long, I could have done just that.

But then he had to go and ruin it like he did everything.

“You know what I want to know,” he said, his voice rumbling against my abdomen. “Why aren’t you still with this man you so loved?”

“Why do you care?” I demanded.

He fell quiet. Then he let out a deep breath that heated my skin. “I’ve had a heartbreak of my own, and I’m trying to make sense of it.”

“I have no wisdom to share. I’ve had no successes in my relationships with men or women. I’m the wrong person to—”

“Just answer the question.”

I was silent for a long time, gathering my thoughts, trying to wade through the flood of memories, take what I needed, and harden my mind and heart to the rest of it.

“Lochlan,” I whispered like it was a holy offering, a gift to the dark. “Heaven above, I haven’t spoken that name in ages . . . It still hurts . . .”

Finley’s shoulders stiffened against me. His fingers flexed in the bedding beneath us. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I still want to hear it,” he said stubbornly.

“The family I worked for,” I began, throat dry and voice cracking, “the father was a horrid land baron. An absolute monster. The worst sort of man. He possessed the kind of cruelty that delighted in abuse.”

“Hm. I can imagine that sort.” As he spoke, his short beard scratched gently against my belly. I was growing to like the weight of him there.

“I won’t tell you the baron’s name. He doesn’t deserve to be honored in such a way. I never speak it. All you need to know is he should have smelled like sulfur and had cloven hooves. That’s how horrible he was, and he treated poor Loch the worst of anyone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question at all.”

“I’m getting to that,” I grumped. “I told you it’s a long story.” I propped an arm behind my head and peered out the window at the twinkling stars and the blankness between them. “Lochlan had been adopted by the family I served, only he was treated like a domestic, not a son. No matter how bad it got, no matter how cruel the baron was, Lochlan still tried so hard to please that blasted man.”

“Seems only natural that a boy would want to please his father,” he muttered.

“I suppose you’re right, but I had a much younger mind then. I was just eighteen when I left, still practically a girl myself. And I hated that Lochlan loved him so. I felt betrayed by his loyalty to a man who treated me—and him—so poorly.”

“That’s it, then?” he said, his tone unexpectedly prickly. “He was his father’s boy, so you’re not together anymore?”

“No . . . that’s not it . . .” I swallowed. “I had sticky fingers when I was a youth.”

“You still do.”

“Ha. Your knife hardly counts. At least I gave it back after I stole it. I came by my wealth more honestly eventually . . . mostly. But when I was younger, I took as I pleased. A feeling you can apparently relate to,” I added pointedly.

“Just where you’re concerned,” he said.

I snorted at that, not believing him for a moment. “Am I supposed to feel special now?” Robbing my safe had taken thought, effort, at least a handful of madness, and experience to crack a lock like that. “Anyway, poor Lochlan only had one thing he cared for more than the baron’s approval. It was a ring gifted to his birth mother and passed on to him when she could no longer care for him. It wasn’t worth a great deal, just a simple rose gold band, but it was his fondest possession. His natural father died in the Great Rebellion before he could marry his mother, but he’d sent that ring to her as a promise. It was the only piece of his blood family that Loch had . . . Oh, how he used to dream about them. When the baron was terrible, he’d talk about his father returning suddenly to save us both. He’d describe him riding in on this great horse like a famous gunslinger in a dime novel, still wearing a Union uniform, not dead after all, coming to make everything all right.”

“I’m not following how this all connects,” he pressed.

“I’m getting to that.” My face went hot with shame. I was glad he wasn’t looking right at me. I wouldn’t have been able to bear it. “The baron and his wife tried to have their own children but couldn’t. They’d both gotten on in years, and so had we. When we were eighteen, Lochlan was finally pronounced the family heir, and it was all made official by an attorney. That’s when I knew there was no future for us. That horrid baron would never tolerate a domestic-nobody like me as a daughter-in-law. It was only a matter of time before Lochlan cast me off just to please his pa . . .”

“Did he tell you that?” Finley grunted, his shoulders going taut. “Did he do something that convinced you—”

“No, no. That’s just the way of the world, but Lochlan insisted on looking at everything through a more romantic lens. To him, the books we loved so much were more than fiction and closer to the truth of things, but I knew better,” I said. He was staring at me now, his sad, scarred, tawny gaze boring into me, reminding me too much of a different set of sweet, hopeful brown eyes. “I . . . I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Finley lowered his head back onto my belly, this time placing his cheek just above my navel. “You haven’t finished answering my question.”

I sighed. “He didn’t do anything wrong, all right? It’s like I told you. I’m more serpent than you. No harpy in hell is worse, remember? ”

“I remember.” He rubbed a hand soothingly across my stomach, the touch so gentle the muscles there trembled.

As long as he wasn’t looking at me, I could finish part of the story at least, or enough to get me out of the trade. I tried to rush to the end, skipping over the horrendous middle, words spilling painfully past my lips. “I tricked Lochlan into teaching me how to open the family safe. He wanted to show me the ring he was going to marry me with. He knew I was insecure about our future together, so he showed me the band he’d been going on about for years. He was . . . We were . . . What I did next was unforgivable, Finley.”

The lump in my throat had become too much. I struggled around it, the words burning on my tongue.

“He showed me his most prized possession to reassure me,” I said sadly. “That night while the house slept, I stole it. There were more valuable things in the family safe by far, but I took just ten dollars in cash from the baron—not too terribly much that he’d bother to look for me long—and the ring that was precious to Lochlan. I fled that horrid house, and I left Light Lily behind for good.”

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of cricket song coming in through the window.

Needing the comfort of touch, I laced my fingers through the soft walnut strands of Finley’s hair. “Lochlan deserved a whole lot better than me. I didn’t have it in me to wait about until he finally figured that out . . . or worse: married me out of duty or pity. He was good enough—he might have done so just to keep his word. At least he got someone more suitable this way.”

“How do you know he got better than you?” he asked gruffly.

“I . . . I suppose I don’t. But I certainly hope he did.”

He peered up at me. “Do you truly hope that?”

It was impossible to lie directly to those sad eyes. “All right. You caught me. I want to wish him well, but even now the thought of him with another person turns my insides to lava. So I’ll say instead that I hope his life has been happy and peaceful—and entirely celibate.”

His warm laughter chased off some of the somberness that had settled inside me during the retelling. “You hope he’s become a monk?”

“Absolutely. It’s not too far-fetched, actually. If he stumbled upon a library excellent enough, he’d never leave its walls no matter how pretty the face. Can I please go to sleep now?” I begged. “You’ve exhausted me, playing my game completely incorrectly.”

His exhale warmed the skin of my stomach. “I won’t stop you,” he said, settling in as though he planned to remain there, using me like a pillow, my chemise still rucked up under my armpits.

I pulled the hem down over my breasts, then I pushed at his face to dislodge him. But he was already asleep and breathing heavily—or faking it very convincingly.

I’d just finished saying how tired I was, but when I tried to close my eyes, thoughts gnawed at me. A monster made of my guilt clawed at my insides for all the rotten things I’d done.

The night was a cool one. As a breeze picked up through the window, and the lanterns burned their oil down to a lower glow than I preferred, I was soon grateful for Finley’s warm body pressed over mine.

I had just started to drift away when a taunting thump tore through the quiet, and I repressed a groan. It was a hollow sound not unlike the wet beat of a heart, but distant and faint, hiding away in the dark places out of my reach.

I hated that sound. It was a noise that had taunted me since childhood, at times remaining faint enough to ignore, but other moments it pulled me from my sleep, incessant and frightening and always from the dark. The noise drew closer, growing louder in the hallway.

My pulse pumped faster. I reached down, pressing my fingers into Finley’s hair, seeking reassurance in the warmth of the strands and the steadiness of his breath. But the sound continued, growing so loud panic trapped the air in my lungs.

The doorknob shook.

“Finley,” I squeaked. The air cooled around me, biting at the end of my nose. The lanterns fogged up. Darkness crept in around the edges of the glass globes, fighting its way closer. “Finley!” I gasped, and my fingers tightened in his hair.

“Hm?” he rumbled, lashes blinking open. He lifted his chin.

“The door,” I whispered.

The knob turned and the door creaked open. Finley sat upright, shielding my body with his. My heart thundered in my chest, striking my ribs so hard it hurt. My pulse surged in my neck and thighs.

Footsteps dragged across the floorboards, and the wood creaked.

“Oh God . . .” I said, staring in horror at the haunting darkness pushing nearer, certain I would soon see a creature of nightmare.

But nothing was there at all.

Finley turned to me, setting his large palm over my eyes. “Don’t stare at it,” he rasped.

“Don’t stare at what ?” I hissed.

“This lost spirit won’t harm you if you ignore him,” he whispered back. “Don’t stare. Don’t speak to him.”

“ Spirit ? I don’t believe in ghosts, Finley!”

“Shh,” he soothed.

After that, I could hear nothing over the rush of blood in my ears and the storm of my heart in my chest. My limbs tremored, but Finley’s weight remained over me, consistent and sure. I clung to him.

Slowly my pulse calmed, and the thump of footsteps retreated. The door opened and closed once more. The darkness went quiet.

Finley released my eyes. I blinked, adjusting to the glow of the lanterns. The darkness behind him remained still. Had I really heard the door open? Was my mind playing mean tricks on me?

“Ghost country,” he reminded me. “There’s more of them here in Blackwood County.”

I shook my head. “I hear those noises all the time,” I insisted. My voice shook, and my skin pebbled like the rest of me doubted my own words. Sounds haunted dark spaces, lying in wait to play with those of us with an overactive imagination. “The noises just don’t usually . . .”

“Get so close to you?” he offered. He pressed his palm over my heart, and it surged once more. It beat against his hand, striking madly like the hooves of a galloping horse in flight.

Heat built between us, and the thud of my pulse began to race for a very different reason. His hungry eyes claimed mine. He shifted his weight, and the hard, hot bulge in his trousers nudged my thigh. A thrill went through me: fear-triggered lust.

Finley worked his throat. “You should go to sleep,” he rasped. “We have a long day of travel ahead of us. ”

“So should you.”

We stared at each other for so long, time stopped holding any meaning.

Finally, he settled back over me, using my stomach as a pillow. I was glad for his nearness, for the shield of his broad body against the mysteries of the dark, and I finally joined him in slumber.

* * *

I awoke early the next morning well before Finley stirred. He’d shifted off me in the night, onto his side of the bed. Auburn lashes feathered against his cheeks. Even on his scarred side, he looked significantly less like a wicked serpent. Younger, peaceful, more innocent.

I almost felt bad for slicing up most of his clothing.

Almost.

I gathered my dress and fresh underthings for the day from my valise and laid them over the chair to let the wrinkles settle out of them. Then I pulled on a simple cream dressing gown over my chemise and visited the outhouse. The inn was old and far from the nearest municipality. It didn’t have a lavatory.

The family worked together to get a hot breakfast onto the large dining room table for guests. I took advantage of their distracted state to let myself into the small office off the parlor, looking for something—anything that could aid me. I found a piece of parchment, a pen, and a small square envelope for correspondence.

I could write a letter and send for help. Perhaps the inn owners would even agree to post it for me after we took our leave. If this were to work, I’d need to speak with them quickly, before Finley woke and caught me conspiring.

But who would I send it to and how would I pay the post? No lawman would care about the woes of a harlot, and I didn’t want to have a discussion with the police about all the ways I’d made my fortune. Not every dollar had been earned legally.

I bit my lip. There was only one person who would be angry enough to attempt my rescue—if I could even call it that.

Utrecht would come for me. I shuddered even thinking his name. If I worded things just so, specifically to get under his skin and tug at his pride, he’d come in search of this Nightingale House in Blackwood. I didn’t have a way to reach him while he was traveling, but Cynthia, the madam of the brothel where I’d formerly been employed, would hold the letter for him if I sent it to her there.

As much as I was displeased with him, Utrecht was the devil I knew, which was only slightly less intimidating than the devil I was getting to know. If I could get my hands on my cash and incite Utrecht to come after me, perhaps I could evade both serpents at once while they were preoccupied with each other.

It felt like a long shot—a reckless one at that—but I saw no other option. Finley refused to confirm what his game was about, and I would not be anyone’s prisoner indefinitely. Even if they had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen and the orgasms were toe-curlingly good. I was no one’s helpless captive. Anyone who tried to make me such would regret it.

I scribbled out a quick note, then stuffed the letter into the envelope and addressed it. I searched for postage or a coin to help pay for it, pushing about items on the cluttered desk, opening and closing drawers, but my efforts were fruitless.

Movement in the hall caught my notice. I tucked the letter into my garter belt, then I slipped out the door—right in front of the inn owner.

His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. He seemed taller there than he had last night, broad and imposing. He folded bulky arms across his chest.

“Oh! Apologies. I needed to borrow a pen,” I told him, lacing my fingers together in front of my waist, the picture of demure innocence. “Hope that was all right.”

The sternness cleared immediately from his expression, the poor trusting fellow. “Of course. Breakfast is ready.”

“Thank you. I’ll let my husband know, and we’ll be right down.”

I headed back toward our room, having second thoughts about my plan to summon Utrecht. The letter remained tucked in my garter, scratching gently against my thigh. Bringing two devils together when I could hardly handle one seemed less and less like a grand idea the higher up the stairs I traveled.

Back in our room, I made quite a bit of noise tending to my hair, fetching a fresh pitcher of water, washing and using toothpowder, but Finley continued to sleep soundly. In my brief absence, he’d flopped onto his back and now hogged the center of the bed, spread out like a starfish.

He’d slept in his shirt and trousers. The button seam was still open, his thick cock pressing against the linen. He’d beaten me at my own game last night by not playing fair, using his strength and my own rules against me . . .

But I was just as capable as he was of playing unfairly.

That gave me an idea. A perfectly rotten one.